


A Prologue to Taffeta

by gogollescent



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-20 03:08:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1494340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gogollescent/pseuds/gogollescent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once, someone asked me to write them Vimes/Vetinari curtainfic. This is not quite that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Prologue to Taffeta

To a very reasonable extent, Vimes was prepared for questions about interior design from Sybil. He could successfully distinguish Sea Foam from Ocean Breeze seven times out of ten, and had recognized Ankh Scum without having to be told the official product title; he had been known to express articulate three-word opinions on lace in a pinch, especially after the entry of Young Sam into his life had sent him sneaking to the library for books on the effect of crib decor on young psyches. Captain Angua, after listening to a short dissertation’s worth of earnest advice from Sergeant Cheri on the merits of glitter in the bedroom, had come to him one dark midwinter’s eve for help choosing wallpaper to cover the place where she had accidentally clawed through the wall, and had received, if not any actual suggestions, at least his serious attention for the five minutes it took for him to realize what she was asking and to wonder how she’d gotten into the kitchen at one in the morning[1].

None of this had readied him for Havelock Vetinari leaning back in his chair and saying, “Commander, have you ever meditated on the curtain?”

"Sir?" said Vimes, and took firmer hold of his helmet.

Few things escaped the scientific senses of the Patrician on a general basis, but he seemed determined to ignore the crepitation of pressurized metal. “You’re a married man,” he said, terribly.

"Yessir." And after a treacherous pause: "Fred Colon’s been married for _much longer_ , sir.”

"You know Leonard of Quirm?"

"What?"

"Leonard of Quirm," said the Patrician with slow emphasis. "Famous painter, not long ago took your own Captain Carrot on a… boat…"

"Right, yes, Leonard," said Vimes. "Understood. Now, _what_?”

There was a mutually embarrassed silence. Vimes had known Vetinari for more than a decade, and he could count the number of times Vetinari had been embarrassed back at him on one hand. With three of the fingers chopped off. On both previous occasions Vetinari had gotten out of it by passing out shortly after in the typically evasive, spineless way of the recently shot/repeatedly poisoned, but this time he just sat there, looking increasingly like a stork in an obstetric ward. Vimes would have been fascinated, had he not been halfway to sweating out the morning’s BLT.

"Leonard—that is, Mr. da Quirm—has expressed a wish for a ‘cozier’ domestic environment," he said, finally. The quotation marks slotted into place like a closing prison gate.

Vimes stared. “Sir?”

"Apparently the barrenness of his mind’s current backdrop is a source of some grief to him," said Vetinari.

Vimes tried to picture Leonard of Quirm, who he had last seen five years ago, being lightly mobbed by priests. The overwhelming impression was of a man who had once noticed the ceiling he was sitting under and then instantly replaced it in his mental vision with a little fresco of tweeting birds. Vimes had never imagined that anyone could smile benevolently while held in headlock by a relative of Mustrum Ridcully, owner of the pure Ridcully armpit, but Leonard had not only done so, he had remonstrated Detritus afterwards for being ‘a bit too valorous, dear sir’ in extracting his head. Of course, Hughnon Ridcully had had to be picked up out of the Ridcully-shaped patch of floor after the crowd of lesser acolytes had been dispersed, but even so—

"Shouldn’t he be the one doing swatch selection, then?" he attempted. "Since he’s the, er, beneficiary. And the artist. And the genius."

"Yes, you’d think so," said Vetinari, grim as the Hubward winds, "but Leonard suffers from a very particular disposition. One which makes it quite impossible for him to decide on any single color, or design, or species, for his chosen ornament."

"—species—"

"The Ambiguous Puzuma was mentioned. It seems they make quite attractive roadkill, although, alas, they are not to be observed in any more—more _rotund_  state, which as you can imagine is a source of great regret to an anatomist of Mr. da Quirm’s caliber.”

Vimes had at last crested the chilly, unfeeling peaks of horror to the peaceful valleys of exasperation beyond. “Then just leave the windows as they are and wait until he decides they look nicest that way!”

Vetinari’s expression became mulish in a manner that Vimes, father to a precocious young scatophile and shepherd to dozens of would-be detectiving prodigies besides, recognized as easily as he had Ankh Scum. “Naturally, Commander, this plan occurred to me as well. But it won’t do. It’s been weeks, and he remains wistful, subdued, and—” he hesitated “— _unproductive._ He hasn’t upgraded his coffee machine in a month; it now actually produces nonsentient espresso. I’m afraid there’s nothing for it.”

"Except me."

"Yes!" said Vetinari, smiling in relief. "Quite. Yes, exactly."

Vimes gazed at him in sorrow and resignation, but left with only perfunctory farewells. Once back at the Watch House, he wasted no time. He strode up to the front desk like a man making ready for war, and once there he went so far as to cough noisily to attract the desk-dwarf’s attention.

"Sergeant?" he said. "Get me Corporal Nobbs."

[1] Cheri, a nervous hostess, had served her three mugs of Klatchian coffee and had been quite surprised when she suddenly stood up and bulleted away into the night.


End file.
